


come undone

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, But consensual, Canon Divergence - The Sign of Three, Drunk Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It of Sorts, Fix-it fic, Frottage, Gratuitous Song Lyrics, Hand Jobs, Johnlock - Freeform, Lapdance, M/M, POV John Watson, Rutting, Sherlock Dances, Smut, Stag Night, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, Strip Tease, Stripping, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26241682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: At his stag night, John discovers just how much Sherlocklovesdancing
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 52
Kudos: 211
Collections: The Curious Case of Ole Twinkletoes





	come undone

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer for gratuitous song lyrics ahead. Not all of the songs chosen were around when _Sign of Three_ aired, but, hey, it’s fanfiction, timelines can be bent. 
> 
> **Songs quoted in this fic:**
> 
> [Need You Tonight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Swdbv5I6qzc) by INXS  
> [Permission](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qp1Pq2Fuw30) by Ro James  
> [Religion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUB63iL3icA) by Lana Del Rey  
> [Scary Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4n-AbC6GK1Y) by The Neighbourhood  
> [Call Out My Name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsEne1ZiQrk) by The Weeknd  
> [Come Undone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z19xky1RlIs) by Duran Duran

The whiskey sat warm in his stomach, a pleasant, buzzing heat suffusing his relaxed body. His socked feet tucked beneath the arm of Sherlock’s chair, John sprawled out, his limbs feeling loose and heavy. The way his thoughts swam was not altogether unpleasant, and giggles threatened to bubble up from deep in his chest as Sherlock wiggled and drunkenly gestured across from him. 

A thought occurred to John, sending him into helpless laughter that curled his toes and bent him over in the chair. When he looked up, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, Sherlock blinked at him. He seemed simultaneously bemused and pleased, and John dissolved into breathy giggles. 

“What’s so funny?” There was a piece of paper stuck to Sherlock’s forehead that said _Sherlock Holmes,_ and his face was flushed with drink. He slurred the _s_ sounds of his words, making John snort before regaining something close to composure.

“Remember when you taught me how to dance?” Cheek balanced against his whiskey glass, John tilted back in his chair and goggled at Sherlock, who goggled back. 

“I’m not _that_ drunk, John,” Sherlock slurred, squirming to sit up straight. He didn’t quite succeed, nearly tipping sideways and only just saving his drink from being knocked to the floor by a wayward elbow. “Of course I remember,” he continued, balance regained. “Why?”

John waved a hand, sloshing whiskey dangerously close to the edge of his glass. “Dunno. Just didn’t expect you to be the type.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and he slid lower in his chair as if boneless, nearing a state of liquidity previously unattainable in a more sober moment. “What type is that?”

“Dunno,” John repeated, squinting one eye shut as he pondered the question. “Someone who dances, I s’pose.” 

A slow, playful smile curved Sherlock’s lips, giving his face an impish cast. “You underestimate me, John.” He rose to his feet, swaying unsteadily before righting himself. “Though, I suppose there must be _some_ mystery between friends.” His grin turned crooked, his feet stuttering over the floor as if it were suddenly uneven. John cocked a brow in response.

“Oh?” he said, dropping his feet to the rug. “What mysteries might those be, then?” He let his legs fall open, arms draping over the sides of his chair, whiskey glass dangling from his left hand. “Go on, then,” he ordered, waving his fingers. “Share with the rest of the class.” 

Sherlock’s brows shot up in a bemused expression, but a hint of challenge glimmered in his eyes. “What you don’t know about me, John,” he began, turning away in a graceful half-circle, arms rising upward, “is that I _love_ to dance.” As John watched, Sherlock crossed one leg behind the other and pointed his toe. One arm bent before his waist as the other stretched away from his body. Sherlock dragged his socked foot over the rug, to his ankle and, with one long leg bent at the knee, he lifted onto his toe and spun, arms moving with the motion. It was a little clumsy, his limbs loosened by alcohol, but he stuck the landing, legs crossing with bent knees and arms held slightly out from his sides. Sherlock cleared his throat and dropped his hands, looking expectantly at John.

His mouth open, John cleared his throat and clapped awkwardly with his drink still in-hand. “That was…” he shook his head, stunned. “That was bloody _marvellous!_ ” He hiccuped and set the glass down to clap properly before wolf-whistling. The over-enthusiastic display brought a bright flush to Sherlock’s cheeks, and he bowed sarcastically. 

“It’s nothing. A basic pirouette, something any beginner could do.” Despite his dismissive words, Sherlock looked pleased, his eyes warm and bright. John flapped his hand, waving the modesty away.

“Sod that,” he said, grinning. “It was bloody fantastic. Where did you learn to do that?” 

Sherlock tilted his head. “I took lessons as a child. My parents thought it would help with some of my excess energy. Since I wasn’t into team sports, they believed ballet might help me gain some discipline.”

“Well, they were damn wrong there, weren’t they?” John noted, and a wide smile crept over Sherlock’s face.

“Quite,” he agreed, sounding amused.

“So, why don’t you do it anymore? Dance, I mean.” 

Sherlock shrugged. His eyes shifted away doggedly, and he answered with a vague, “Why does anyone stop anything? Life happens.” Something hung unspoken in the air, and John cleared his throat, willing to let the topic drop. 

“Can you do any other dances?” he asked, finishing off his drink. He topped off both glasses and handed Sherlock’s over, smiling as the detective took a large gulp of the fiery liquid. Pulling a face, Sherlock set the glass on the coffee table and nodded. 

“Yes, though I don’t have classical training in other styles.” His face flushed with the alcohol, he brought his feet together and paused. He stared at the floor for a moment with narrowed eyes before a ripple seemed to run through his body, turning it relaxed and lithe. John blinked at the sudden change until Sherlock stepped forward with his left foot, lifted and dropped his right foot in place, then stepped back with his left until both feet were together again. He punctuated each step with a playful little shimmy of his hips, arms moving in time with the pace. He glanced up and caught John’s eye, a tentative half-smile curving the edge of his lips. Repeating the sequence, this time stepping back after his forward set, Sherlock crossed his leg in front, stepped to the side, and then crossed behind. His movements sped up, hips tilting with the actions, eyes following the direction his feet moved. 

Watching him, John blinked. “I think we need music,” he said, and Sherlock shot him a startled look. Without waiting for an answer, John dug out his phone and queued up a song with a grin. It was a fast and sensual tune, a man’s rich voice crooning in Spanish from the tinny speakers. John set the phone on his chair arm and turned his attention back to Sherlock with a wolfish grin. Sherlock tilted his head, sharp eyes appraising and fogged with inebriation, and fell back into his dancing. 

His hips swung smoothly, arms drifting with the flow of the dance, and John watched with an unexpected hunger. Always graceful, his long limbs and lean body enviously elegant, dancing transformed Sherlock into something sinfully sensual. Each movement appeared calculated but fluid, body moving in subtle ways that drew John’s eyes first to Sherlock’s legs, to his throat, to his shifting curls and delicate, long-fingered hands. He felt his cheeks warm and swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. His throat clicked and John dug his hands into the armrests, heart hammering in his chest. 

Sherlock shifted into a slightly different step, moving fluidly into a similar style that was just different enough to stand out. Brow furrowed, John tilted his head and asked, “What’s that?”

“Samba,” Sherlock answered. He ducked his head and glanced at John from beneath his lashes, a faint smile tugging the edges of his full lips. 

“And before?”

“Salsa.” 

Chin pillowed in his palm, John leaned on the chair’s arm and blinked slowly up at Sherlock. “What else?” 

Sherlock looked pleasantly surprised at the prompting, and he stepped forward, taking John’s phone. This close, his breathing was a little fast, his face flushed red, and John didn’t think it was just the drink and the dancing causing the reaction. Heat emanated from Sherlock, tangible enough to be felt even with him briefly near. When he retreated, turning his attention to the device in his hand, John let out a shuddering sigh and wet his lips. 

The song changed to something quicker, an upbeat, dramatic piece with sizzling violin notes and a jaunty beat punctuated by castanets. Sherlock set the phone aside, brought his feet together with a sweep of his arm. Lips parted, eyes wide, and his drink momentarily forgotten, John watched with rapt attention as Sherlock drew a hand over his chest, leaning back with a flick of his chin, arm rising until his fingers stretched into the air over his head. His other arm danced over his stomach and outward, flicking fingers teasing away from his body as his leg rose and bent, stepped, shifted into a quick, snappy turn. He repeated a similar maneuver, accompanied by a sharp flick of his hips, a playful kick of one foot, and he faced John again, his expression alight with a bright glimmer of satisfaction. Sherlock’s eyes danced over John’s face, his chest rising with rapid, controlled breaths, his gaze expectant.

“Was that…” John paused, narrowed his eyes, and tried, “tango?” Sherlock’s grin crinkled his eyes, made them gleam.

“Well done, John. Yes, it was.” Their eyes locked, Sherlock’s chest still rising and falling too fast with his breathing. A second stretched out, then two, and, without understanding why, John lifted the whiskey bottle. Sherlock tilted his head before his grin reappeared, dancing along his lips as he leaned forward and let John tip the neck to his mouth. Whiskey trickled past Sherlock’s parted lips, a small rivulet dripping down his chin and over his jaw. John stared at the dribble until Sherlock wiped it away. When he stepped back, he popped his fingertip in his mouth, cocked an eyebrow and smiled. There was a strange, almost vulnerable edge to the expression, tempered by a startling playfulness that made John’s head swim far more than the whiskey. 

He cleared his throat and downed the rest of his glass with a fiery gulp. The liquor burned on its way down his throat, and he resisted the urge to cough as Sherlock changed the song to something quick-beat and lively. 

“Keep in mind,” Sherlock said, his voice slurred by drinking from the bottle, “that m’not wearing shoes.” Arms bent at his sides, fingers slightly curled toward his palms, he kicked out his foot and clicked his socked heel on the floor. It made a little _thud_ sound, and Sherlock giggled. He tapped his toes to the hardwood and brought his arms down at his sides with an understated little flourish. Amused, listening to Sherlock’s breathless little chuckles with each heavy _thud_ , John grinned.

“I’m sorry, but are you trying to _tap dance?”_

His lips curved in a broad smile that revealed his teeth, Sherlock sniffed. “I’m not _trying_. I’m succeeding. Socks are not the optimal footwear for this style of dance. My attire limits me.” 

“Sure, sure,” John scoffed teasingly, waving his hand. He poured another three fingers into his glass, the whiskey well depleted by now. “That’s what they _all_ say.” 

Sherlock’s only response was a dismissive snort, and he leaned forward with an expectant expression. Catching his silent request, John once more tilted the bottle to Sherlock’s waiting mouth. His eyes fixed on Sherlock’s throat, watching it flex, Adam’s apple bobbing as Sherlock swallowed. The sight of it made something flutter in John’s chest, and he huffed a shaky sigh that drew Sherlock’s eyes to his. They both swayed closer, Sherlock’s hands landing on the armrest. 

“Still don’t think I’m the type of man who likes to dance?” he asked in a rough voice. When John replied, his words escaped in something closer to a growl. 

“I think I’d better see some more.” At Sherlock’s head tilt, he added, “You know, so I have a properly informed opinion.” 

Sherlock tossed the phone back to John, who fumbled the device and nearly dropped it on the floor. Holding it tightly, John blinked up at Sherlock, who looked back at him with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Dealer’s choice.”

John stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. His vision swam with the whiskey and the heavy thudding of his heart, and he took a deep breath as he turned his attention to the phone. After a moment of consideration, he grinned and turned up the volume as the song began. 

At the first _doo-wop-wop,_ Sherlock groaned. “Really, John? The _twist?”_

John’s only response was his widening grin. Sherlock began to shimmy on his heels with a suffering sigh and jaunt his arms about, twisting at the waist with a sour expression. When John burst into muffled giggles, hands pressed over his mouth, the glare shattered, letting Sherlock’s goofy grin through. He looked exuberant with his red face and glittering eyes, bottom lip caught in his teeth. 

“Utterly ridiculous,” he declared. John chuckled and queued the song up again. As the first refrain played, Sherlock darted forward, reaching for the phone with a mock scowl. “I’m not doing it again!” 

“Aw, come on, Sherlock,” John whinged, leaning back in the chair and holding the phone out of reach. “It’s my stag night!”

“Don’t care.” Sherlock swiped for the device, but John avoided him again, sticking out his legs to keep Sherlock at bay. Instead of succeeding, he tripped the detective, who tumbled half into his lap, half over the arm of the chair. 

“Whoops.” John grabbed Sherlock’s waist automatically, anchoring him in place. “My bad.” 

Sherlock stared at him from where he lay half-sprawled over John’s outstretched legs. His mouth opened, but nothing emerged, and their eyes locked. A current passed between them, electric and vibrating. John swallowed loudly. 

“I suppose that’s it for the dancing, then,” he joked weakly, watching Sherlock’s eyes track his lips as they moved. “Not even _you_ could make this position work.”

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment, John’s thin attempt at humour stretching into a tenuous tension between them. When he spoke, his voice was soft, his expression impossible to read. “Not necessarily, John,” he said, still watching John’s mouth. “I’ve never been one to turn down a challenge.” 

“No, you never have,” John agreed, realizing they were locked in a strange game of _Chicken._ John’s leg was starting to fall asleep, Sherlock’s bony hip digging into the nerve. He ignored it, fixated on Sherlock. “There is such a thing as a…” he paused to inhale shakily before finishing, “lap dance.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened, pupils dilating so suddenly that the sight of them almost made John dizzy. His tongue darted out, swiping over his pouty bottom lip, and John watched with rapt focus as it disappeared back into his mouth. “Is that so?” Sherlock replied in a rasp, his throat clicking with the force of his swallow. 

“Yeah,” John said weakly, frozen in place by Sherlock’s large, darkened eyes. “Or so I hear.” 

“Intriguing.” Their eyes remained locked, both breathing too loud, too fast, neither moving as if locked in place. A silence stretched out, grew tight, tense, taut and snapped as Sherlock pushed away and onto his feet. He left behind fading warmth, the feeling flooding back into John’s leg fast enough to make him grimace. On his way up, Sherlock snagged the whiskey bottle by the neck. It dangled from his long fingers, the base bumping against his hip as he stood over John and stared down at him. His eyes were still dark, shifting toward black as he took in John’s quickened breathing, flushed face, and tense hands curled over the chair arms. 

Pinning John in place with his gaze, Sherlock tipped the whiskey bottle to his lips and drank, setting it down with a clumsy clink. “Yes?” he said, without preamble or explanation. Somehow, John knew how to answer. 

“Yeah,” he repeated. Sherlock’s breath caught, and colour rushed up to his neck, into his cheeks, a blossom of tantalizing colour that made John’s heart rate pick up. 

Sherlock held out his hand. He didn’t speak, watching John’s face closely as if waiting for him to make the right move—or the wrong one. Reading the unspoken question in Sherlock’s body language, John reached out and set his phone in Sherlock’s open palm. It was a mirror image of their first meeting, all those years ago in Bart’s, and John heard Sherlock’s breath grow erratic. For a second, just a second, John felt an edge of guilty panic. 

_Is this actually happening?_ His throat went tight, hands clenched into fists against the rough fabric under his palms. _You’re engaged to be married, Watson. What the_ fuck _are you doing?_

Looking up at Sherlock, John knew exactly what he was doing, what _they_ were doing. Whiskey or water, he wanted it. 

Sherlock tapped the screen without breaking eye contact, swiping his thumb along the display. Seconds later, a steady beat paired with a humming bassline drifted from the phone’s speakers. He placed the phone on the table beside John’s chair and straightened, catching John’s focus again. The singer whispered, _Come over here,_ and a guitar joined the tune, turning it familiar just before the opening lines crooned out.

 _All you got is this moment  
_ _The twenty-first century’s yesterday  
_ _You can care all you want  
_ _Everybody does, yeah, that's okay_

John’s eyes widened, and he breathed a stuttering sigh. Eyelids flickering, Sherlock lowered his gaze, peering at John from under his lashes. His own breathing was loud and harsh, and he lifted his hands slowly, so slowly, letting them flutter up to his neck. Long fingers caressed the elegant lines of his throat and higher, moving into his hair, the piece of paper once stuck on his forehead long gone and lost to his first pirouette. Gripping his curls, Sherlock tilted his head back with a barely audible sigh. John helplessly echoed the sound, his lungs aching as if he couldn’t get enough air. 

_So slide over here and give me a moment  
_ _Your moves are so raw  
_ _I've got to let you know, I've got to let you know  
_ _You're one of my kind_

Sherlock rocked his hips forward with his fingers still tangled in his hair, slowly at first, then quicker, finding the beat. John’s eyes dropped to the sway of his body, pinned to Sherlock’s thighs. His face and neck, bared by the tilt of his head, were mottled and red, faintly slick with a sheen of sweat. The sight of him, of Sherlock with fluttering eyelashes and parted lips, swaying his slender hips in a decidedly provocative way, wiped any lingering doubts from John’s mind.

He wanted this, wanted Sherlock. 

_I need you tonight, ‘cause I'm not sleeping  
_ _There's something about you girl, that makes me sweat_

Sherlock’s hands slid down his chest and lower. They played over his stomach, thumbs stroking teasingly along the edge of his trousers. Eyes locked on Sherlock’s flitting fingertips, John held his breath, waiting. He lifted a hand without thinking, reaching out before he could stop himself. But Sherlock shifted backwards out of reach, his fingers ticking upward, shrugging his coat off to the floor like it wasn’t a ridiculously expensive, bespoke jacket, nudging it aside with a socked foot. The singer murmured and husked through John’s phone speakers, drawling inviting questions into the room. They echoed John’s own thoughts, making his head spin and his heart race.

 _How do you feel? I'm lonely  
_ _What do you think? Can't take it all  
_ _What ya gonna do? Gonna live my life_

With the jacket removed, Sherlock’s tight shirt outlined his lean torso. Pale blue, it looked white in the warm light of the sitting room, brushing tantalizing shadows over his long neck and the hollows of his jaw. The buttons strained, the fabric almost seeming to sigh with relief as Sherlock flicked them free one by one, his fingers moving in a teasing, slow trail down the placket. Not a single word had passed between them since the music started, not since John breathed his whispering, _yeah._ The vocal silence was beginning to shift into a feeling of suspense, but it was heady, a delicate and delicious shiver working its way over John’s skin. 

Just as he thought that he would never be able to sit in his chair again without the memory of Sherlock stripping off his shirt haunting him, Sherlock spun away. His movements calculated, hips tilting in a slow, rolling swagger to the beat, he gripped one of the wooden chairs pushed beneath the desk against the wall. He slid it out and across the floor on the back legs, face alight with exhilaration and alcohol. The chair stopped by the coffee table, John’s eyes torn away from the rearrangement as Sherlock prowled toward him. His shirt hung halfway down his arms and fluttered as he advanced, hands landing on the arms of John’s chair. 

Up close, the sheen of sweat on his brow was evident, the musky smell of arousal underpinning the sharp, flashing excitement in Sherlock’s darkened eyes. One hand left the chair arm, fingertips brushing John’s chest, travelling up his shoulder to his elbow and lower, catching John’s wrist in an inviting grip.

“Sherlock,” John began breathlessly, the rest of the sentence lost both to the rush of adrenaline in his body, and Sherlock’s finger pressing to his lips, stilling them. Helpless to resist, John flicked his tongue out to taste, groaning when Sherlock’s lashes fluttered, and a little sigh escaped him. Mouthing along with the song, he guided John to his feet and pressed close, bare chest warm against John’s, even through his jumper.

 _So slide over here and give me a moment  
_ _Your moves are so raw  
_ _I've got to let you know, I've got to let you know  
_ _You're one of my kind_

The singer made a playful grunt at the end of the last line, and Sherlock tilted his head back in a controlled jerk, baring his neck. John stared, his pulse loud and thunderous in his ears. Just as he started to lean in, allowing himself to taste and touch and explore, Sherlock gripped him by the biceps, backed him toward the chair, and turned to press against John’s chest. Sherlock stepped back, moving John with him, and bent, forcing John to bend his knees. John’s thighs met the edge of the wooden chair from the desk, and he sat heavily. With John’s feet planted on the ground, Sherlock dipped between John’s legs with his back still to John, his hands sliding over John’s thighs.

“Oh, god,” John said in a weak, breathless voice that broke on his curse. _“Sherlock.”_

Sherlock tilted his head and shot a searing look over his shoulder, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he rocketed back to his feet in a smooth, sinuous movement that brought his arse in line with John’s face. John nearly choked in response, hands curling into fists around the edge of the chair. His knuckles turned white with the force of his hold. The song was drawing to the end of the final refrain as Sherlock stepped away and turned. When he faced John again, he lifted one hand to his face and, using only his teeth, undid the cuff on his sleeve. John bit back a whimper as he watched first one, then the other cuff pop open, the shirt slithering down Sherlock’s arms with a little flick of his shoulders. It was kicked aside to join Sherlock’s discarded jacket as the song ended.

In the following silence, John heard his throat click. He opened his mouth to speak, and the next song began. John shivered. A slow, emotional tune began, melding into a heady beat followed by a sensuous purr crooning, _oh, ohhh, ohhh_ that shifted into the opening lines.

 _With your permission, I just wanna spend a little time with you, ooh  
_ _With your permission, tonight I wanna be a little me on you, oh yeah  
_ _With your permission, I wanna spend the night sipping on you_

“Christ.” John’s curse stuttered out from numb lips as Sherlock advanced on him again, his eyelids lowered to half-mast, his tongue flicking out in a pink flash. His hands brushed John’s knees before he twisted away, moving behind the chair, fingers dragging over John’s shoulder, moving along his nape and up into his hair. He gripped and tugged, pulling John’s head back, making John groan and blink up at Sherlock standing behind him. Sherlock ducked, gaze locked with John’s, and John sighed, closing his eyes and wetting his lips in preparation. 

But Sherlock’s breath barely brushed his cheek with the scent of alcohol and temptation before the warmth receded, and the hand in his hair disappeared to drag over his left shoulder and away. John’s eyes snapped open at the loss, and he blinked quickly, lifting his head to see Sherlock rotating around toward him again. 

_You know what I'm talking about baby, yeah  
_ _Now it's time for you to show me what it's hitting for  
_ _Sip a little Jack, maybe blow a little 'dro  
_ _Love you from behind, but I hate to see you go_

Feet planted, legs spread, Sherlock tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and stroked his hands from the top of his trousers to his throat. Goosebumps rippled over his skin in the wake of his touch, John’s body breaking out in shivers in a sympathetic display. Long fingers drifted outward and down, teasing over Sherlock’s navel, the jut of his hips where they rose from the top of his trousers, fanning outward to slither down his thighs. John’s breath caught, and he gasped, arousal rushing through him, his blood shooting south as he watched Sherlock flick the button free. John resisted the urge to knead his palm against his growing erection, riveted to Sherlock’s fingers as they spread the placket open. 

The gesture was teasing, tentative, aborted as Sherlock’s hands moved upward again. They fisted into his curls and higher, one hand rising into the air, the other skating back down his body. His hips shifted, swayed one way, then the other, the muscles of his abdomen rippling. 

_Oh, come on, give me that green light  
_ _And you can let your hair hang down, but only if it feels right  
_ _Oh, oh, give me that green light, I need you to give me that green light_

With the singer crooning through his inviting pleas, Sherlock touched himself like his body was someone else’s, shivering as his fingers brushed over his nipples. John groaned, imagining the reaction was to his own hands, that he was the one touching Sherlock. John was beginning to ache, thickening cock trapped in his jeans, and he wiggled, trying to relieve the pressure. Before he could get a hand on himself, Sherlock sidled forward and dropped into John’s lap with his long legs draped over the sides of the chair. 

_With your permission, I just wanna put a little smile on you, ooh  
_ _With your permission, there's a whole lot of motherfuckin' lovin' that's way past due, I owe you  
_ _With your permission, I'ma do all the things that I said I'm gon' do_

“Fuck,” John whimpered, the sudden pressure on his cock making him writhe. His hands landed on Sherlock’s thighs, drifting up to his waist, palms cupping warm skin and lithe muscle. His expression inscrutable, lips parted, cheeks red with colour, and his eyes bright, Sherlock braced his hands on the back of the chair, bent a leg against John’s hip, and rocked forward in a smooth, filthy thrust, leaving scant inches between their bodies. The air stuttered out of John’s lungs in an audible sigh, his voice rising an entire octave with want. He tightened his grip on Sherlock, trying to draw him closer, to bring friction between them, _anything_ , but Sherlock slid his hand around to John’s nape, gripped his hair, and leaned forward to drift his lips along the side of John’s neck. His mouth moved over the curve of John’s jaw, not quite a kiss but teasing, promising, and John shivered. He felt boneless, melting into the warmth of Sherlock’s breath on his skin as Sherlock rocked his hips forward and back, never quite landing where John ached for him. 

“Please, Sherlock,” he tried, receiving only a scrape of teeth along his jaw in response. He subsided, looking up at Sherlock’s face above his own, Sherlock’s weight landing in his lap again. His hands skated up the sides of John’s neck, kneading into his hair. 

_You know what I'm talking about baby, yeah  
_ _Now it's time for you to show me what it's hitting for  
_ _Sip a little Jack, maybe blow a little 'dro  
_ _Love you from behind, but I hate to see you go_

“Shh.” Sherlock’s eyes were half-open and almost black, pupils dilated and mirroring the arousal spreading through John’s body. “Wait.” 

John tightened his grip again and growled but held his tongue, biting back a needy whine when Sherlock slipped free and rose to his feet. Instead of retreating this time, he spread his legs and slithered down John’s chest, pushing John’s knees apart as he went. Just before he hit the floor, his hands caught John’s thighs, and he hoisted himself back up and turned, his head landing on John’s right shoulder. 

Sparing only a fleeting thought for Sherlock avoiding his injury, John’s mind went blank with surprise as Sherlock planted his feet, pushing himself down and back. The firm, plush curve of his arse ground against John’s cock, and John moaned at the contact, bucking his hips forward to chase the sensation. One of Sherlock’s arms rose and bent, his hand catching John at his nape, pulling his head forward as Sherlock turned to nuzzle against his cheek. When he tried to kiss him, Sherlock tilted his head away. His lips ghosted over John’s temple, down to his ear, and he sang along with the song in a husky whisper. 

_Come on, give me that green light  
_ _And you can let your hair hang down, but only if it feels right  
_ _Oh, oh, give me that green light, I need you to give me that green light_

“Oh, god,” John whispered, eyes rolling back at the hot brush of Sherlock’s tongue over the shell of his ear. “Yes, _yes,_ Sherlock.” He shivered and dragged his hands down Sherlock’s bare torso, stroking over his peaked nipples and making him gasp. John closed his eyes at the breathless whimper Sherlock muffled against his neck. “Fuck, _yes.”_

His hands dropped to Sherlock’s loose trousers. Fingers curling through the belt loops, John hummed a questioning sound into Sherlock’s skin and tugged gently. Sherlock’s hips bucked upward in response, and his hands covered John’s. With encouraging, slow, teasing inches, they both drew Sherlock’s trousers down. When they caught at Sherlock’s hip bones, he planted his hands on the back of the chair and arched his back, hips rising until his body curved into a bow, the curls at his crown brushing John’s shoulder. 

_Ain't no pressure, it's all on you  
_ _There's a tension, between us two  
_ _Red light special, girl you're special  
_ _You a blessing, so let me bless you_

Heart racing fit to burst, John shoved the trousers down, Sherlock taking over when he could no longer reach. His arse landing back in John’s lap, Sherlock hooked his foot in one leg and pushed, somehow making the gesture graceful with his other leg extended. Hands planted on the sides of the chair, he rocked back and mouthed at the curve of John’s jaw, the trousers shed with a calculated kick that sent them behind a chair. The socks followed before Sherlock danced up and off John’s lap. 

“Wait, where—” John began, only to fall silent as Sherlock twisted back to him and dropped down between his spread legs. His hands stroked up John’s thighs, gripped his knees, and Sherlock swept forward and up, their faces coming within inches of one another. Sherlock’s lashes brushed John’s cheek when he blinked, sharing hot breath between their panting mouths. John tilted his head forward but barely grazed Sherlock’s bottom lip before Sherlock dropped again, squatting between John’s parted knees. He looked up at John from beneath his lashes, a coy, sinful temptation, his palms drifting over the inside of John’s thighs. 

He was the perfect picture of lust, of want and aching desire, and John quivered under his touch. His alcohol-driven intoxication was receding, a heady, mind-scattering yearning seeping in to take its place. The sensation was even more disarming than the whiskey, and John jerked with a full-body tremour when Sherlock suddenly tilted forward and nudged his face against the tight crotch of John’s jeans. 

The song ended and shifted into something atmospheric, the wild, rising hum of violin fading into a pouty woman’s voice, dripping with sex appeal. John barely caught the end of the first refrain, blood rushing in his ears.

 _Everything is fine now, let sleeping dogs lay  
_ _All our minds made up now, all our beds are made  
_ _No one's out of time, no, chips fall wherever they may  
_ _Leave it all behind, let the ocean wash it away_

 _“Fuuuucckk,”_ John groaned, drawing the curse out in a helpless sigh. He could feel Sherlock’s teeth scrape his zipper, gripping the tab and tugging. The sound of metal teeth parting lit a fire deep in John’s stomach, a sizzling sensation that ignited, grew to an inferno and spread through his body. His hips jolted forward involuntarily, chasing the heat of Sherlock’s exhaled moan where it drifted through the open front of his jeans. Still trapped in his pants, the parted zip nowhere near enough to relieve the pressure restricting his aching cock, John groaned again and dug his nails into his palms. The song rose and faded into the vibrating air, John whimpering with need as Sherlock’s tongue flicked through his zip and brushed John’s cock through the precum-damp fabric of his pants. His whimpers roughened to growls, and John gripped a handful of Sherlock’s curls, tipping Sherlock’s head back. Lips parted, eyes narrowed to dark slits, Sherlock gazed up at him from between John’s legs, looking like pure sex. John shivered.

 _It never was about the money or the drugs.  
_ _For you, there's only love  
_ _For you, there's only love  
_ _It never was about the party or the clubs  
_ _For you, there's only love_

Moving his hands to Sherlock’s arms, John tugged and hauled Sherlock back into his lap. He pinned him in place by the waist, rocking his hips against the erection tenting the front of Sherlock’s tight, midnight blue pants. The gesture drew a stunning, needy sound from Sherlock’s open mouth, rising into pitiful keening when John shifted and pulled him down harder.

 _'Cause you're my religion, you're how I'm living  
_ _When all my friends say I should take some space  
_ _Well, I can't envision that for a minute  
_ _When I'm down on my knees, you're how I pray  
_ _Hallelujah, I need your love  
_ _Hallelujah, I need your love_

Sherlock worked his hands between them, and John stiffened, anticipating rejection. But Sherlock gripped the hem of John’s jumper and tugged, John tilting back and raising his arms as it was stripped over his head. The buttons of his shirt opened quickly, the placket pushed aside to bare his chest to Sherlock’s eager fingers. They stroked over his chest, down to his stomach, lingered over his navel and rose. Sherlock brushed his thumbs hard over John’s nipples, made him quiver and gasp, and slid his hands higher, fingers gripping in John’s hair and tilting his head up. 

_Everything is bright now, no more cloudy days  
_ _Even when the storms come, in the eye we'll stay, no need to survive now  
_ _All we do is play, all I hear is music like Lay Lady Lay_

Their mouths finally met, came together and held. The electric current humming through the room set them alight, their tongues touching, forming a conduit, sending shivers and longing want along John’s spine. He sucked at Sherlock’s bottom lip, tasted his breath and licked deeper with Sherlock whimpering, _“John,”_ against his lips while his hips rutted restlessly forward. The singer’s voice dwindled, the next song dropping a lustful beat into the ensuing silence. 

_Don't wanna be alone, don't wanna be alone  
_ _You're too pretty for me, baby, I know, it's true, yeah  
_ _You look better when you first wake up than anybody else I've fucked  
_ _Baby, I got good luck with you, I didn't know we'd get so far  
_ _And it's only the start, baby, you got me worried_

“Yeah, Sherlock, yes, oh, fuck,” John babbled as Sherlock ground against him, his hands wandering over John’s bare chest, shoulders, and sides. “Touch me, touch me, just like that. Oh, _god.”_ His fingers left goosebumps on John’s skin, stroking and exploring until John surged up and swept Sherlock tighter to him. Sherlock blinked, startled, tension melting away when John staggered to his feet and claimed his mouth. Long legs wrapped tight around John’s waist, Sherlock making needy little sounds against his lips. “Hold on, baby, hold on,” he panted, sucking Sherlock’s upper lip into his mouth and barely managing the few steps to his red chair. 

_Your love is scaring me, no one has ever cared for me as much as you do  
_ _Ooh, yeah, I need you here  
_ _Your love is scaring me, no one has ever cared for me as much as you do  
_ _Ooh, yeah, I need you here_

They tipped into John’s chair, Sherlock sprawling before John was on him. He felt like a wild thing, turned loose and feral by lust. Everything John had held inside for years, all his pent-up what-ifs and if-onlys were set free, first by the liquor, then by Sherlock’s temptations. John wanted to devour him, and he forced himself to pause. Staring down at Sherlock’s flushed face and dark gaze, his long, lean body trapped by John’s knees straddling his waist, John sucked in a loud, giddy breath. Looking into Sherlock’s eyes, he saw his lust reflected back at him, tempered by lingering vulnerability and anticipation. Beneath it all, he saw trust, and his stomach clenched. Instead of bringing him to his senses, John felt a sense of conviction rise, a feeling that this was right, that this was exactly how it should be.

No matter how they had ended up here, it was where they were meant to be. John felt the truth of it in his bones. There would be no turning back, not now.

 _I'm in the passenger seat, you're in control, it's on you now, mhm  
_ _You look better every day, I swear, really, it's a little unfair  
_ _Baby, I'm star-struck by you, didn't know we'd get so far  
_ _And it's only the start, baby, you got me worried_

John tilted to the side to shove his jeans off, kicking them clumsily onto the floor before rolling back and straddling Sherlock again. They shifted and scrabbled at one another until their hips aligned, grinding with sloppy, hungry thrusts. Even through the fabric of his pants, the sensation was exquisite, John growling into Sherlock’s neck with each roll of his hips. Sherlock clung to him and buried his fingers in John’s hair, nails scratching over his scalp, breathless little moans escaping him every time their cocks dragged together. 

Somewhere between stripping his jeans and ravishing Sherlock with his body, the song changed, and John shivered in time with the beat.

 _We found each other, I helped you out of a broken place  
_ _You gave me comfort, but falling for you was my mistake_

Sherlock groaned into John’s mouth, and John drank the sound down as it faded to whimpers, fumbling to free himself from his pants. With them pushed to his thighs, he shoved Sherlock’s tight boxer briefs down and gripped their cocks in his palm. Precum smeared over his fingers, and Sherlock whined against John’s lips, hips twitching in time with John’s stroking hand.

“Yeah, baby, that’s it,” John whispered, catching Sherlock’s bottom lip in his teeth and tugging lightly before dragging his tongue over the swollen skin. “Let me hear you, let me hear how good it feels.”

Sherlock’s quiet sounds rose, audible even when he buried his face in John’s neck. His little shivers and tremours were a stark contrast to the music, his cock pushing into John’s fingers with each roll of Sherlock’s hips. He panted a rasping, “John, _please,”_ through his laboured breathing, head falling back. The sight of Sherlock so needy, so open, made John’s cock twitch, sending a spike of agonizing want through his body. He drove his hips forward, quickening until he was fucking into his hand, rutting against Sherlock’s leaking erection.

 _I put you on top, I put you on top, I claimed you so proud and openly  
_ _And when times were rough, when times were rough, I made sure I held you close to me_

John brought his hand to his lips and tasted their mingled precum on his tongue. He groaned and snarled, looping an arm around Sherlock’s waist to tug him closer. The angle was awkward for them both, one of Sherlock’s long legs hooked over the armrest, John working his spit-slicked hand beneath Sherlock’s rocking body. He stroked over the curve of his arse and between Sherlock’s cheeks. Sherlock shuddered, jerking with surprise before letting out a high-pitched, gasping cry when John’s finger circled his hole. “John,” he sobbed out through clenched teeth, eyes wild with arousal, his lips swollen and wet. _“John.”_

 _So call out my name (call out my name), call out my name when I kiss you so gently  
_ _I want you to stay (I want you to stay), I want you to stay, even though you don't want me_

Gently, slowly, John worked his finger into Sherlock’s body. He coaxed and stroked until he breached the tight ring of muscle, and Sherlock came with a loud, stunned wail, his cum splattering John’s stomach, torso, and spilling over his pumping fist. His body clenched and spasmed, gripping John’s finger and making them both moan.

“Oh, fuck,” John whimpered, clamping his teeth together and turning the curse into a hoarse snarl that twisted his upper lip back. “God, _yeah,_ Sherlock, cum for me, gorgeous. Fuck, yes, _yes,_ look at you, _look at you.”_ He was babbling, chanting nonsensical encouragement, stroking Sherlock through his orgasm, using Sherlock’s cum as lubricant for his own straining cock. Growling, John pinned Sherlock down and released his softened cock, rutting with blind lust in the cum pooling on Sherlock’s navel. The words dropping from his lips were instinctive, fed by possession and rutting impulse as John ground out, “Mine, _mine,”_ into Sherlock’s curls. 

His hips stuttered, snapped forward once, twice, one final time, and then he was cumming, painting his release over Sherlock’s pale skin. It felt endless. Caught up in his climax, John growled his covetous litany until he finally stilled.

His arms went loose, and he sprawled over Sherlock’s shaking body. John could feel his heartbeat where their chests pressed together, wild and riotous, racing fit to burst. His own was no better, the sound of his pulse rushing like a crashing tide in his ears. They lay still for a moment, John finally slipping his finger out of Sherlock to the melody of soft, exhausted mewling against his neck. 

John lifted himself on his hands and looked down. Sherlock stared back at him with faded eyes, his expression questioning, open, shattered. Heart still thundering in his chest, John bent down and kissed him, first hard, then gently, hoping to impart everything he couldn’t say in the gesture. There was a new song playing, the tail end of a gentle, rising tune that made John slip his arms around Sherlock’s softening body and kiss him again, breathing promises into his mouth.

_Who do you need, who do you love, when you come undone?_

**Author's Note:**

> **As always, a disclaimer:**
> 
> If your comment is just that John seems small/soft/whatever or that Sherlock is much darker/sexier/whatever, please move long. Also, for the love of my sanity, do not leave comments about John's cock being too small/Sherlock's being bigger, because I literally do not care about John Watson's fictional penis.


End file.
